


a thousand miles away

by spikenard



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol, Character Study, Dissociation, Dubious Consent, Gansey's Home Life, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, Uncomfortable Scenes at Fancy Parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:37:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8300137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikenard/pseuds/spikenard
Summary: “Everyone’s face is a mirror, Dick — endeavor to make them reflect a smile.” Just one of those unfortunate first sexual experiences.





	

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to @[umbrella](http://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrella/works) for betaing, bullying me to write, letting me bully her into bullying me to write, holding my hand, et cetera. any errant punctuation is my fault entirely for being stubborn. thanks also to @[palmsmith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/palmsmith/works) for consulting on mechanics and also putting up with my absolutely awful alliteration. 
> 
> additional, more detailed content warnings in endnotes; please, please, read them if you think (based on the tags) that you might be upset by this fic’s content. 
> 
> title is from kurt vile's _pretty pimpin_ , the dysphoric dissociation anthem.

The party's only been going for under an hour, but Gansey'd been roped into helping set up, as always — he'd been on his feet for several hours when he sees the first people his age.

Most of them are Helen's age, really, and fresh out of college, or just finishing up, like Helen is. Gansey was a surprise baby; he's going to be the youngest at events like this until grandchildren start appearing.

Gansey is wearing a short-sleeved seersucker shirt and check shorts; the house's central air means he's constantly a little too cold, even with the press of people where the party is. Outside is worse, the last July scorch mellowing into August's melt. He was outside for ten minutes moving tables in the afternoon's last light and his shirt is already clinging to his low back.

The seersucker feels bad against his skin, and the shirt is slightly too tight over his shoulders to begin with; his mother hasn't had the chance to replace his wardrobe since he got back. He's grown three inches in the year since he's been home, and he keeps tripping over things and knocking over glasses, so Helen banished him back inside and told him to stop helping.

Gansey passes through the room, smiling and pressing people's hands. He's tired. His mother gave him an extra glass of wine at dinner and he can feel the start of a headache at his temples.

Most of the kids closest to his age are busy with internships or jobs or summer programs; he only sees a few familiar faces, and mostly they're Helen's friends, or recently-minted adults he was always just slightly too young to trail after, and who wouldn't appreciate his trailing after them now either. Then:

"Charlie!" Gansey calls, and waves. Charlie is Helen's age, but the two of them have never gotten along, and Charlie always let Gansey follow him around at parties like this. He notices Gansey and toasts with a mostly-full glass of champagne. Gansey makes his way across the room, and Charlie watches him with an amused eye but makes no move to pull away. When Gansey makes it over to him, the glass is empty.

"It's so good to see you, Charlie!" Gansey says, almost breathless. "You missed the last one of these. How's Boston?"

"It's Chaz," Charlie says, like he used to when he was still at Choate, and then through college. Gansey can't help but think of him as anyone but Charlie, though, who taught Gansey geometry on a napkin the first year Gansey got to sit at the adults' table even though he was too young to be there, Charlie who got him drunk on cider when he was 12 and didn't know it was alcoholic.

But apparently Chaz is a nickname with staying power.

"Chaz," Gansey says. "Of course."

"I almost didn't recognize you, Dickie," Chaz says — teases? no, says — "it's been a couple years, huh? I'd ruffle your hair but it looks shellacked down, you gotta figure out something better to do with that stuff." He knocks his knuckles against Gansey's skull, two firm taps. "When'd you get so tall, huh?"

Gansey beams. Chaz finishes the rest of his champagne and sets it down before pinching Gansey's cheek where it still dimples. "Handsome young man," he says, putting on a voice that Gansey thinks might be intended to sound like a old woman.

Gansey laughs, feeling stiff and mocked, and bats Charlie's hands away. He doesn't know what to say. Gansey never feels less himself than he does at these events, but he's so glad Charlie's here.

Charlie — _Chaz_ — seems at home, though. He grabs two glasses of champagne when the staff comes back around and presses one on Gansey, who sips it and tries not to make a face. Chaz slings his arm around Gansey's shoulder and clinks their glasses together.

"So, my man," he says. "Gotta get me caught up on your life, huh?"

"Oh, I'm not up to anything interesting," Gansey says. He doesn’t want to tell Chaz about Glendower. He doesn’t want to think about it while he’s stuck here. Gansey is starting private school in Virginia in the fall. His parents don't like him traveling, anymore. They're worried about him, his mother said, speaking while his father nodded along; they don't think he knows who's trustworthy. They think he'll be taken advantage of.

Chaz squeezes Gansey's shoulder. "Shit, you've got a lot of muscle for a high schooler," he says, and laughs. "And you got tall. I remember when you were a tiny weedy little nerd." He pokes Gansey's unsmiling cheek, where his dimple falls.

Gansey doesn't know what to say, feels squirmy and embarrassed. He knows he isn't cool; he doesn't know what to do with the body that developed while he was busy _doing things_. People seem to think he will be more normal, now, and he just isn't. How late of a bloomer is he going to be?

"Anyway," Chaz continues, " _nothing's up_ , bullshit, man, didn't you go globetrotting or something?"

Gansey doesn't want to talk about it. He badly misses Malory. He would like to go to his room and take a look at the books that came a few days ago, which his mother took away until after the party. She hid them, but he knows where they are. He's not five, and she's not great at hiding things. Gansey and Helen always used to know what all their presents were ahead of time. Helen hated it, and claimed it spoiled the surprise; Gansey found it comforting, and never understood why Helen looked if she didn't want to know.

"You finished college last year, right? Aren't you working, now?" Gansey asks, looking away. "What's that like?"

"Bitch," Chaz says, deeply earnest and trying to catch Gansey's eye, "you do not want to hear about how boring my job is, and I'm pretty sure you're too young for me to talk about how tight my boss' ass is, she is _crazy_ hot."

He waggles his eyebrows. Gansey can feel himself blush; he's never had a strong head for liquor, and he didn't eat much at dinner.

"Finish your drink!" Chaz says, encouraging, laughing. "And tell me about all the girls you met, come on. Foreign chicks. Weren't you in South America for a while? Party."

Gansey tilts his head back and swallows the rest of his champagne, trying to avoid the taste. The room's full; his parents aren't checking up on him. They trust him not to get into trouble here, with these people who have known him for years. He feels tethered down and trapped, and awful about feeling like that about his home.

Chaz plucks Gansey's empty glass out of his hand. "Good man," he says. A waiter comes by, and Chaz finishes his own champagne before exchanging both glasses for full ones.

"Which door's out to the study, again?" he asks, one hand on Gansey's elbow, the other one holding both glasses of champagne.

Gansey gestures, mute.

He wishes he were kneeling in a muddy field in Wales, or suspended from half a dozen ropes on the side of a cliff. He wishes he were anywhere but here. There have been girls, but Gansey does not want to talk about them with _Charlie_ , for some reason he can't quite articulate even to himself.

They leave the party, and they're in the hallway, which is cool — cold, really, heavily air-conditioned — and quiet. Gansey can feel himself relaxing despite himself. Goosebumps prickle up on his forearms.

Chaz hands him one of the champagne glasses; some of it spilled, leaving the glass and stem sticky, but Gansey can't figure out a way to wipe it off without making himself obvious. He takes a long sip instead.

"Lead on, McChamp," Chaz says, and when Gansey looks over Chaz' eyes are glittering and his smile is strange. Gansey licks his lips. They taste like champagne.

"The library's this way," Gansey says. It used to be his favorite room in the house, before he died, and he’s still fond of it: it's cozy and cramped, with narrow windows and tiny window seats and a potted plant that his mother always says has outgrown the room but still hasn't replaced. It's dark in the room, but the narrow windows open onto the main lawn, which is lit by a combination of floodlamps and LEDs twinkling in the trees; some of that light filters in.

He opens the door and Chaz looks around appreciatively. "Nice," he says, and completely ignores the glass-fronted bookshelves closed over enticingly aged books to investigate the drinks cabinet tucked under the arm of the room's better squashy chair. It's got the armillary sphere Gansey got for Christmas the year he turned 12 sitting on top of it; he had honestly forgotten there was a stash of alcohol in this room when he suggested it.

"You gonna finish your champagne?" Chaz asks, after a moment. Gansey feels himself jerk to attention; he hadn't realized he'd drifted off.

"No," Gansey says. The glass is still nearly full. He takes another sip and can't quite hide his grimace.

"Not your style, huh?" Chaz laughs. "Want me to take it off your hands?"

"Please," Gansey says. He doesn't like the bubbles. When he holds his hand out to hand his glass over, Chaz wraps his pointer finger around the stem and his hand over Gansey's. He rubs his thumb over Gansey's wrist, where he's got a tan line from a summer of wearing ragged braided bracelets. His mother made him cut them off before the party.

Gansey swallows. He's not looking at Chaz' face, but he can tell that Chaz is looking at him, and that his face is strange again.

He pulls his hand away, and Chaz lets it go. He's on his knees trying to jimmy the lock to the drinks cabinet with his tie pin. Gansey edges two steps backwards, until the backs of his bare knees bump against the cushion on one of the tiny window seats. He sits down.

He doesn’t remember everything in this room being so close together. It feels smaller than he remembers it.

Gansey doesn't fit into the window seats sideways anymore unless he tucks his knees all the way against his chest, and when he does that he can't hold a book to read it. He's still the only one who regularly uses the room; he's not sure his parents even know which books are kept here.

He used to be able to sit on seats lengthwise with his legs folded and a book in his lap; now he faces out towards the room and fits snugly between the bookshelves to his right and left. He settles his hands into his lap and lets his elbows flop outwards; they collide with the shelves. He digs his elbows into the hard wood and stares at the armillary sphere, the low light from the floodlamps outside bouncing off and between the glass doors. It's dark.

"Hah!" Chaz says, triumphant and a little slurred as his exclamation trails off. The door to the drinks cabinet swings open; his tie pin clatters to the floor. He doesn't pick it up.

"Let's see," Chaz says, and then whistles low. "There's some good shit in here."

The cabinet is very small — it's not large enough to hold more than three bottles of wine, not that his parents would ever keep wine in this room — but Gansey doesn't doubt it. Chaz pulls away with a half-empty bottle of Laphroaig in his hand and waggles it at Gansey.

He's standing on his knees, the door to the cabinet swung open next to his hip, the two champagne glasses — one empty, one two-thirds empty — in a neat row next to his knee. Gansey doesn't want to keep drinking. "Help yourself," he says anyway.

"Look at that southern hospitality," Chaz says, a mocking drawl in his voice. He's from Delaware, Gansey thinks with a faint wisp of affront, it’s not like the man is a yankee. Chaz picks up the glass with some champagne left in it, and drains it, before glancing around.

There's nowhere to put it down. Chaz shuffles to the door, whiskey still in hand, and tucks the empty glass into the planter, and then reaches to do the same with the other empty glass. He puts the bottle of whiskey down and pulls a few leaves over the glassware, like he's tucking the glasses in, as if that will hide them.

"Shhh," Chaz says, one finger pressed against his lips. Gansey swallows and swallows down the urge to shrug. He's the one who's going to have to clean those up tomorrow, anyway. Chaz picks the bottle of whiskey back up again and tries to twist the top off. He can't get purchase, and curses; the bottle probably hasn't been opened in months and the cork is stuck shut.

He knee-walks over to Gansey and pushes the neck of the bottle into the loose leg of Gansey's shorts. Gansey jumps at the feel of the cap against his outer thigh; it's cold in the room and the metal's chilly.

"Hold still, little man," Chaz says. The back of the hand holding the bottle is pressed against the outside of Gansey's knee. He cups his free hand over Gansey's thigh and pushes the bottle against his palm, through Gansey's shorts.

Gansey holds still. This time he can feel the cap staying still against Chaz' palm while the bottle turns. When the cork is twisted out, Chaz pulls the bottle's neck out from under Gansey's shorts and lets the cap fall to the floor. The open mouth is smooth and hard and doesn't quite tickle as it drags along his thigh and digs into the tendon behind his knee.

Chaz sits, his legs tucked under him, and lapses from his almost-kneel to a sprawl. Gansey watches him as he puts the mouth to his lips and tilts the bottle up. Gansey shivers. He wishes he'd worn a long-sleeved shirt. He leans back against the windows, and the glass is cool against his shoulders.

Chaz exhales, a glottal _ah_ , and passes the bottle up. He wipes his mouth with the back of his other hand. This close to the light, Gansey can see that it leaves a shiny reflection on the back of his hand.

"Drink up, man," Chaz says. "That's the good shit. Puts hair on your chest, huh?"

Gansey feels strange. He wishes he could shrink himself back down. Gansey wants to curl up in the window seat, but Chaz has leaned his forehead against Gansey's knee, and it would be rude to disturb him. His breath is hot and wet against Gansey’s calf.

Chaz tilts his face up. “If you’re not gonna drink it,” he starts, and Gansey shakes his head but puts the bottle to his mouth. The glass is wet against his lower lip. He tilts the bottle back, just enough to curl the tip of his tongue into the neck, and then lowers it.

“Shit,” Chaz says, half-laughing. “Shit. God, I shouldn’t have pregamed.”

Gansey feels the first inkling of alarm. “Are you going to be sick?” he asks.

Chaz rests his head on Gansey’s knee. His hand is wrapped around Gansey’s ankle and his thumb is rubbing back and forth over the dip and jut of bone.

Chaz is looking up at Gansey. “Nah,” he says. “I’m cool, champ.”

Gansey doesn’t understand the look on Chaz’ face or the steady pressure of his palm against thin skin over bone. Gansey flexes the arch of his foot and lifts his knee, tenses the muscle in his calf. He hands the bottle back down and Chaz pulls away to take it. Gansey isn’t sure if he’s relieved.

Chaz drinks. He rests his elbow on the edge of the window seat’s cushion, and Gansey can feel the warmth coming off Chaz all the way up his leg, from his ankle up his calf and through his shorts against his thigh. 

With resigned mortification, Gansey can feel his penis twitch against his leg, and realizes he’s hard. Gansey is almost disappointed in himself: he’s had enough to drink tonight that he had been vaguely hoping to be spared that particular humiliation.

“So,” Chaz says. Gansey desperately hopes Chaz isn’t going to try and make him talk about girls like this, for all that that was the putative reason for their departure. But instead, Chaz drinks again. Gansey watches his throat work, and looks away when Chaz exhales and puts the bottle down. Gansey shifts his legs, a little, and tugs at the hem of his shorts in attempt to straighten out the situation before it becomes noticeable.

Chaz scoots closer. He’s leaning up against Gansey’s leg, now; his polo shirt is soft. It feels nice. Gansey wonders where he got it. He shifts his hand into his lap; Chaz’ face is extremely close to his inopportune erection. He hopes Chaz will ignore it.

"Is your sister still single?" Chaz asks, digging his chin into the bare skin just beneath the hem of Gansey's shorts, as he passes the bottle back up.

"Yeah," Gansey says. He sets the bottle down on the window seat behind himself, carefully tilting it against the window so it won’t spill. He has no idea where the cork is; he doesn’t see it on the floor and he suspects it rolled off somewhere. "But she’s never going to go for you. She told me she thinks you look like a douchebag with your hair like that."

The insult doesn’t fit into his mouth properly. Chaz laughs, though, like Gansey knew he would. A tiny flash of satisfaction thrills through him, despite everything — the pervasive sense that Gansey’s missing something, his constant anticipatory expectation that the other shoe is about to drop. Gansey shifts one hand into his lap, as discreetly as he can, cupping it over the tent in his shorts in an attempt to get it to decamp.

“Man,” Chaz says, still laughing. He sounds drunk. “Man.” He rubs his forehead over Gansey’s thigh, and settles his temple against the muscle to look up at Gansey, sideways. His hand has drifted to Gansey’s knee. It’s squeezing, metacarpals dug in against the knobs of Gansey’s patella.

Gansey chuckles back, but it feels forced and awkward, so he clears his throat. With the hand not in his lap, he touches the short-buzzed hair at the back of Chaz’ tidy haircut; it’s soft against the pads of his fingers.

Chaz makes a noise of understanding, and Gansey jerks his fingers back and does his best not to be obvious about his boner. Chaz is pulling away from Gansey’s thigh; Gansey isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or about to panic.

“What about you, Dickie-boy?” Chaz says. He’s sitting upright again, almost kneeling; there’s space between him and Gansey now, but his hand is on Gansey’s knee. Gansey waits for him to let go.

“What,” Gansey says. Chaz doesn’t let go of his knee. He’s kneeling now, in front of Gansey instead of curled alongside him. Chaz is trying to straighten, and he pushes at Gansey’s knee to steady himself. Gansey tenses his thigh so it doesn’t shift. He’s sure Chaz must be able to see the hand he has over his lap, but Chaz doesn’t seem to be looking there, to Gansey’s great relief. Instead keeps trying to make eye contact, which Gansey also studiously avoids.

“Are you single, dude?” Chaz says, and shuffles closer, on his knees. His grin is sharp and shining. “Some foreign princess expecting you to be loyal and true to her memory, or some shit?”

He pushes at Gansey’s leg again, and Gansey finds himself frowning. He catches himself, though, and carefully smooths his face into a more benign confusion.

“No,” Gansey says. “There’s no one.”

Chaz grins, and leans in. “So there’s no one who’d tell me off for doing this?” he asks, and looks up at Gansey under his eyelashes. He’s bent forward over Gansey’s lap, now, his hand still warm and heavy on Gansey’s knee, pinioning it in place. Gansey couldn’t move his leg if he wanted to, but when Chaz presses again, Gansey’s thigh swings open like it was on an oiled hinge.

Gansey’s lips are parted. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what Chaz is going to do that would get him told off. Gansey can feel the beat of his pulse hurtling forward with his whole body; it’s fast but faint.

Chaz shuffles forward on his knees, his body pushing Gansey’s other thigh out of the way. Gansey’s hands are still protectively covering his lap. He can smell whiskey; the bottle is right next to his elbow and still uncorked, wafting up to him. Chaz isn’t looking up at him anymore.

“God,” Chaz says. “Christ.” His forehead is pressing into the soft skin of Gansey’s stomach. He can feel his heart fluttering weakly in every inch of his exposed skin. Gansey is worried that Chaz is going to be sick. It’s happened before.

Gansey wants to squirm away, but his shoulderblades are already digging against the windowpanes and he is hemmed in on all sides, between the bookshelves and Chaz in front of him. There’s nowhere to go. He inhales, instead, to calm down, and watches Chaz’ skull rise and fall with his breath.

His heart is still hammering. He desperately needs Chaz to stop breathing on the hand he has cupped over his crotch, or he is going to embarrass himself.

Chaz sits upright; as he does, his palms slide from their tentative grip on Gansey’s knees up his thighs. Chaz works his fingertips under the bottom hem of Gansey’s shorts and spreads his palms, and hands, out over the skin there. He squeezes, and one of his thumbs digs into a — ticklish? — spot on Gansey’s inner thigh; Gansey gasps with his whole body, and he can feel his foot kick out despite himself. It collides with Chaz’ hip, or side, or maybe shoe, where he’s sitting on his heels.

Chaz makes a questioning sound, and digs his thumb in harder, more purposefully, rubs it back and forth. Gansey’s penis twitches against his hand and he presses his palm down against himself, angles his wrist almost without thinking; the pressure aches. Gansey clenches his other hand into a fist and involuntarily arches his neck hard enough that his skull cracks against the windows.

“Shit,” Chaz says, and does it again. Gansey aches for breath.

“God, I’m fucking drunk,” Chaz says, and then his thumb is digging into Gansey’s inner thigh but his other hand is out from under Gansey’s shorts. Gansey is still rocking his wrist down, pressing his hand against himself in tiny, sweet jolts of pressure. He has to stop; he can’t stop.

Gansey opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed. Chaz’s skull is digging against his sternum and he’s petting at Gansey’s stomach. Gansey reaches up to rub his fingertips over the buzzed hair at the back of Chaz’ skull again, but can’t quite touch him, leaves his hand hovering an inch away from his head.

Chaz makes a frustrated noise and pulls his other hand out from under Gansey’s shorts; his fumbling at Gansey’s stomach becomes significantly more intentional.

“What are you doing,” Gansey starts to ask, but halfway through the sentence Chaz lets out a triumphant _ha_ at Gansey’s belt and opens Gansey’s fly, and Gansey forgets how to talk. Chaz bats Gansey’s hand out of his lap; it falls limp and open, palm up, against his thigh.

By the time he’s recovered the ability to speak, Chaz has got Gansey’s shorts open and his soft palm wrapped around Gansey’s hard-on. Gansey is panting, and Chaz isn’t making it easy for him to recover his composure.

This is nothing like the soft feeling of arousal he’s felt with girls, before, the times Gansey kissed and was kissed for hours and something sweet and tentative unfurled between his legs at every accidental brush of pressure. This is hot and urgent. He feels dizzy with it.

“Charlie,” Gansey says, dazed and stupid, the wrong name in his mouth. His tongue is heavy and swollen and stupid.

Chaz leans forward. His palm’s broad and warm and a little clammy, and he’s pushed Gansey’s foreskin back, which Gansey doesn’t — there’s no way Gansey could pretend this is his own hand, this is nothing like what he does himself. His thumb is spreading slick over the head of Gansey’s erection in tight, overwhelming circles. Gansey can’t keep his hips from shifting. He wants to get himself off. He wants to push Chaz away. He never wants this to stop.

“God,” Chaz says, his voice thick. He’s breathing over Gansey, panting, really, even though Gansey is the one who feels like he can’t get enough air.

The room is still cold, but Gansey is burning up. The glass against Gansey’s back is like ice; he worries it's going to melt. His shirt is sticking to his back, his shorts are stuck to his behind and thighs, and his skin feels like it’s about to ignite.

Chaz sits back on his heels; Gansey can see his face, even though Chaz is staring at his — between his legs. When he sits back, Chaz’ neck bumps against the hand Gansey had left suspended in the air, when he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch. Gansey fumbles it down, tries to tuck it back against his thigh like his other hand, keep it in his own personal space, but Chaz reaches up with his free hand and settles Gansey’s hand in his own hair.

Gansey curls his fingers, tentatively. Chaz’ hair is thick and strawy — pleasant to touch but not easy to run fingers through. He settles for small scritching motions.

Chaz isn’t moving his hand, but he’s still slowly rubbing circles over the head of Gansey’s penis, and staring at him.

“Has anyone ever done this for you?” Chaz asks, but his voice is rough and he doesn’t seem to want an answer, so Gansey just hitches his hips into Chaz’ loose grip in a futile attempt at generating friction.

“Shh,” Chaz says, and his tone is amused and condescending and devastatingly familiar. His free hand slides up Gansey’s thigh until it becomes trapped under the tight fabric of his shorts and his fingertips are covering the edge of Gansey’s boxer briefs; he leans down on that hand, and it stops Gansey’s hips from moving. “Dude. You ever done this before?”

Gansey is open-mouthed and staring. He’s sweating; he feels like his hair is coming out of its gel, and he knows his face must be blotchily flushed even through his summer tan. His heart is fluttering and it feels like there’s not enough blood in his entire body, like he’s floating, the way he feels when he’s about to faint or go into anaphylaxis or vomit.

Gansey manages to shake his head.

“Aw,” Chaz says. Gansey shifts his legs, shifts his weight. He’s humiliated, that Chaz is seeing him like this — his amusement is excruciating — that his body betrayed him, that he was obvious enough that Chaz noticed, that he’s too dizzy to stand, that it feels too good for him to push Chaz away.

Chaz moves his hand on purpose for the first time, and it’s overwhelming, strange and sticky-damp instead of slick against his skin, unexpected and uncontrollable. It’s so good. He curls his finger and thumb into a loose circle and wraps them around the base; Gansey wants to protest, but he can still hardly think.

“Well,” Chaz says, “I’ll help you out,” and with that he presses down with the hand holding Gansey’s hips still, and bends forwards to suck the head of Gansey’s penis into his mouth.

Gansey’s vision whites out and his whole body curls forward with a jolt. He can hear himself whining, and his hand is fisted in Chaz’ hair. He tries to let go, but his fingers are tangled and he pulls at Chaz’ hair instead. Chaz moans, and pushes his mouth down further, until his mouth is pressed against his fingers.

It’s so good it’s painful. Chaz is wet and burning-hot around him; his lips are chapped and he’s not careful with his teeth and he’s drooling. Gansey can’t think; he clenches the hand he has in Chaz’ hair and Chaz pulls back so his mouth is just covering Gansey’s tip before he moans again. The vibration jolts straight to the core of him, an electric line dragging its way through his body. He feels gutted.

Gansey is still curled forward, his shoulders hunched, steadying himself with one hand in Chaz’ hair and one digging into his shoulder. Gansey can’t recall when he reached out. The cotton polo is soft, and won’t crease if Gansey pulls at it; he digs his fingernails in, as hard as he can.

Chaz licks at Gansey’s tip, works his tongue against the slit, and makes a profoundly satisfied noise at — Gansey isn’t sure what. He suspects he’s probably leaking pre-come. This whole endeavor is incredibly undignified, Gansey thinks, an absurd thought floating fully formed across the otherwise blank expanse of his mind.

Chaz pushes back down again and Gansey whimpers. He can’t think; he can’t move. He’s paralyzed, flayed open and letting Chaz tug him a little closer to the edge of the seat, a little further into wet heat. His lips are slick and wet by now, even though they’re chapped; Chaz bobs his head. Gansey has never felt anything like it. He’d never even imagined that this was something it was possible to feel.

Chaz groans again, and Gansey can feel feel it in his scalp, in his toes; his fingernails are tingling. He’s close. He’s been close since before Chaz touched him.

Chaz swallows, twice, and his teeth press in lightly as he does so. Gansey can feel Chaz' throat constrict, and that’s it; he feels exactly like he did when he was dying, for a split second, before he comes back to himself, and then all he can feel is the blood rushing in his ears and the wet pulse of his orgasm into Chaz’ mouth.

Gansey isn’t quite sure what happens next. Chaz swallows, he remembers that, sucks him until he softens and it becomes uncomfortable and sharp; when he comes back to himself he’s tucked away again, inside his boxers with his fly and belt both done up. Chaz is still kneeling between his legs.

Gansey feels unspooled. He runs his hand over Chaz’ hair. Chaz has his face pressed against Gansey’s inner thigh, and his shoulders are working. Gansey briefly wonders if he’s touching himself, and if Gansey is supposed to help him. He’s not sure what his obligations are, with this sort of thing.

Chaz sits up. He reaches past Gansey; they’d knocked the bottle of whiskey over, but it settled against Gansey’s side, stayed mostly upright. There’s a small spill on the seat cushion behind Gansey.

Chaz takes it, sitting back on his heels. His lips are still shiny, and Gansey’s not sure whether it’s with his own spit or the remnants of Gansey’s... and then Chaz puts the bottle of whiskey to his mouth.

Gansey wants to protest — that can’t be sanitary, something about backwash — but Chaz has already swallowed a few fingers worth before he can pull the words together.

Gansey still feels stupid with calm, when Chaz puts the bottle down with a soft clink against the hardwood. He’s groping around on the floor, looking for the cork. Gansey can’t move. His wrists are limp, his hands half-furled where they fell; his thighs are spread; he’s slumped back against the window.

Chaz sees something, apparently, because he leans over, stretching out his body to fumble-grasp the cap into his fingertips. His lap is still in shadow; Gansey can’t tell whether he’s hard. He’s not sure he wants to know, but he’s sure he doesn’t want to look at the lines of Chaz’ reaching form.

Gansey concentrates on steadying his breathing. Chaz is doing something to the bottle, elbows akimbo and the bottle braced against his thigh. He must shove the cork back in, because he makes a satisfied noise — the same one he made with Gansey in his mouth, which sends a vestigial shiver of heat down Gansey’s spine — and leans back on his heels.

“No need to thank me,” Chaz says, and he’s smiling but his eyes are sharp. It’s not clear whether he means corking the bottle.

Gansey isn’t sure what to say, or what to do. He didn’t ask for this; he’s never been particularly adroit at handling unexpected situations, or surprise gifts. No one ever told Gansey what protocol to follow in the aftermath of his first blowjob.

“Thank you,” Gansey says, politely. His tongue still feels thick in his mouth. Chaz laughs, and something about his body language changes. Gansey hadn’t realized Chaz was on alert, shoulders broad and spine straight, until he shifts into a more relaxed slouch. It makes Gansey uneasy, like the edge that still hasn’t left Chaz’ gaze, or the strange look on his face earlier.

“You’re such a good kid,” Chaz says, and Gansey isn’t sure it was intended as a compliment. He doesn’t say anything. Chaz studies him, and then pushes himself upright. Gansey’s still sitting.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ ralph,” Chaz says. “Don’t drink on an empty stomach, huh?”

“I can show you to the bathroom,” Gansey says automatically, and struggles to his feet. He’s standing too close to Chaz once they’re both upright, Gansey’s nose level with the hollow between Chaz’ collarbones. Gansey abruptly wants to put his mouth there, and is shocked by the urge.

He ignores it, and says. “This way,” as if Chaz might have forgotten the door by which they entered the room, and leads him out into the hallway. Chaz is slightly unsteady on his feet, but doesn’t seem to require assistance. Gansey himself can barely walk; his knees are still jelly. He has to trail his fingertips along the hallway's textured wallpaper to keep himself steady.

There’s a bathroom just down the hall. The party hasn’t spilled this far upstairs, or into this wing of the house; Gansey doesn’t bother to knock before he lets them into it and flips the lights on.

Chaz slips to his knees on the tile and flips up the toilet lid easily, an habitual action. Gansey hovers in the doorway.

“You can stay,” Chaz says. “I’ll just be a second.” Gansey isn’t thrilled with the thought, but he takes a step into the room and shuts the door behind himself. He sits on the edge of the bathtub. His knee is almost touching Chaz’ bicep.

Chaz is efficient and quick. He heaves twice before there’s a wet splatter, but once he’s started, it’s all over in under a minute. Chaz staggers to his feet and bends to run some water from the tap into his mouth.

Gansey peers briefly into the toilet. There’s no food in the bowl, just alcohol and bile and semen, neatly contained and ready for disposal. He flushes, and puts the seat back down.

Chaz is looking at him. Scrutinizing, Gansey’s brain supplies. More accurate. “I’m gonna go back down to the party,” he says. His voice shifts, and he sounds almost sympathetic. Gansey isn’t sure why. There’s nothing wrong; Gansey is doing fine. He barely even feels the alcohol anymore. “You look like you should lie down, Dickie. Should I tell your parents you overdid it on the champagne?”

Gansey _is_ fine, but lying down seems nice. He’s sure his mother will tell him off, later, but he’s equally sure that she’ll be secretly pleased that he left one of her parties early because he drank too much and not for a book he wanted to read. He nods, and wishes it had been a smooth and elegant motion, but he can tell that it was jerky, his neck stiff and his shoulders tense.

Chaz claps him on the shoulder. “Good man,” he says, his tone still sympathetic, and departs, pushing past Gansey and out the door. “I can find my way back down, you don’t have to walk me.”

Gansey should protest, but instead he lets Charlie go and sits down on the closed toilet seat. When the door closes, softly, he puts his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He’s not upset. He takes ten breaths, counting out the length of his inhale and exhale.

His palms and cheeks are damp. He still feels sweaty and overheated; his eyes are burning.

He allows himself ten more breaths before he takes his hands off his face and straightens. He flushes the toilet again, without checking to see if there’s any vomit left in the bowl to require that. Just for good measure. He washes his hands and splashes some water on his face before stepping out into the hallway.

Helen is there. Someone must have sent her up to check on him. Gansey is suddenly certain that she can see what he just did.

She’s businesslike and unsympathetic and deeply comforting.

“You didn’t let _Chaz_ get you drunk again, did you?” she asks, crisp and disapproving, in a voice that makes it clear she knows that’s exactly what he did.  

She pulls his arm around her waist and he settles his hand on her hip and leans against her, presses his face against the soft curve of her shoulder. Ganseys don’t often hug, but Helen settles her own hand around his shoulder and brushes her fingertips over his hair for a moment, until Gansey has pulled himself together. He hopes his face didn’t leave a wet spot on her dress, but it’s too dark in the hallway for him to be able to tell.

Gansey straightens. “I’m alright, really,” he says. “I can go back down if you need me.” It’s even true.

“No,” Helen says. “That’s alright. I’ll bet he left a mess, though.”

“Not much of one,” Gansey says, which is true. “I can — I really am alright, Helen, I can clean up.”

Helen purses her lips at him and lets go, shifting her weight back so they separate. “Did you get drunk in the library?” she asks, and Gansey shrugs, sheepish, fitting a rueful smile over his face. He feels the same grinding discomfort he always does when he’s being himself like this; he hadn’t realized it was gone for a moment until it’s back, now.

Helen walks to the library door and looks around. “Well,” she says, “that’s not as bad as I expected.”

Gansey says, “there’s some champagne glasses in the planter,” but Helen is already striding into the room to scoop up the bottle of Laphroaig. Gansey picks the glasses up himself, dusting off the dark clumps of dirt clinging to the glass. He hopes Helen doesn’t inspect the window seats.

“You guys practically killed this,” Helen says, holding the bottle up. There are still a few inches swishing around at the bottom, but it’s certainly more empty than full.

“It was mostly Charlie,” Gansey mumbles. The dirt he wiped off the glasses is clinging to his fingers now. Helen sighs.

“Might as well just throw this out,” Helen says. “Dad won’t notice.”

Gansey rubs his fingers together, trying to get them clean again without wiping them off on his clothes. He nods.

“That’s probably for the best,” he says. “We were drinking straight from the bottle.”

Helen obligingly makes a moue of distaste, the way he expected her to, and shakes her head.

“Shut the liquor cabinet,” Helen says. “How did he even get that open?”

Gansey hands her the champagne glasses and bends to shut the liquor cabinet. The lock pops shut when he presses the door closed. While he’s bent, he sees the glint of Chaz’ tie pin and examines it before standing. It’s monogrammed.

Gansey is abruptly stricken by the realization that Chaz is an idiot.

“Here,” he says, and Helen tucks the bottle into the elbow of the arm that’s holding the champagne glasses to hold her other palm out. He drops the tie pin into her hand.

“Ah,” Helen says. Gansey carefully examines the floor. The lights are still out, but the room doesn’t feel suspended in a dream, anymore. It’s just the library, at night.

After a beat of silence, Helen says, “I’ll return this.” Gansey’s shoulders drop; he hadn’t realized they were tense.

“You go on up to bed, Dick,” Helen says, and her voice is achingly gentle. Gansey doesn’t know why. He just nods, and kisses her cheek before going up to his room.

He sleeps easily, for once, and doesn’t dream.

Gansey doesn’t return to the library for the rest of the summer. He’s outgrown it. And anyway, he’s busy: he’ll be living at school in the fall, and that ought to provide Gansey with ample opportunities to keep himself occupied. 

He’s going to have a roommate, a boy his age; historically this is not a demographic Gansey has done well with. Aglionby is located tantalizingly close to one, or possibly even multiple, ley lines, and the local folklore clearly draws from Welsh sources.

It’s time to grow up and move on to the next thing; Gansey is looking forward to meeting the challenge. _Excelsior._

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written to be a cathartic, relatable feel; i’m primarily publishing it in case it helps someone else figure out how to deal with… having been in a situation like this. anyway! 
> 
> this fic contains a sex scene between two characters. ages are unspecified but the younger character (gansey) is starting his second year of high school and the older character has just finished university. both of them are intoxicated. 
> 
> the more difficult-to-tag-for content warning is that the younger character is unable to effectively articulate his discomfort with anything, even to himself — nevermind his discomfort with sexual attention, or his ability to consent or lack thereof to a sexual situation (even if this were a situation with a same-age peer where everyone was sober). 
> 
> in the moment/narration, he finds the sexual situation physically overwhelming and probably enjoyable, but psychologically confusing and uncomfortable in ways he is unable to articulate. his discomfort with going along with sex is not noticeably different from the baseline distress he feels going along with any other activity, pretty much at all times. 
> 
> and again, he spends most of the fic repressing any unease, negative emotion, or discomfort he feels to such an extent that he is not aware he’s experiencing it.
> 
> in any case! you cann find me on [tumblr](http://spikenards.tumblr.com)!


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